A Barefoot Boy

A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play —

      For May is here once more, and so is he, —

      His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,

    And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:

    Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array

      Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me

      Of woody pathways winding endlessly

    Along the creek, where even yesterday

    He plunged his shrinking body — gasped and shook —

     Yet called the water "warm," with never lack

   Of joy. And so, half enviously I look

     Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, —

     His toe stubbed — ay, his big toe-nail knocked back

   Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.